CHAPTER VII LINCOLN 1860 to 1864
As days and years pass by and an enlightened humanity studies and comprehends the real greatness and simplicity of Abraham Lincoln, he comes nearer and becomes dearer to all. No weak compliment of words can add to his renown, nor will any petty criticism detract from the glory which has crowned his memory. The passing of time has only added brightness to his character; the antagonisms of bitter war have left no shade upon his name; and the hatred which, for a brief time, spent itself in harmless words has turned to reverence and love.
Had he lived until February 12, 1911, he would have been one hundred and two years old. Less than forty-five years ago, in the very prime of life, he was the Chief Magistrate of the Nation, guiding and controlling it in its great struggle for national existence. Such a vast accumulation of history has been compressed into those years, and such a wonderful panorama of events has passed before us in that comparatively brief time, that we are apt to think of Lincoln as of the long ago, as almost a contemporary of Washington and of the Revolutionary fathers. The immensity of the history which has been crowded into those forty-five years has distorted our mental vision, as ordinary objects are sometimes distorted by refraction. Yet when we reflect, the distortion disappears. But the wonder still remains. The years during which the deeds of Lincoln have been a memory to us do not carry us back to the early days of our own country. They do not carry us back even to the time of Jackson, Webster, Clay, or Calhoun; yet the sacred halo of patriotic veneration invests as completely the name of Lincoln as of Washington.
The many personal memories of the martyred patriot that I can recall seem almost a dream to me. It seems almost a vision of the unsubstantial imagination, when I think that I have known the one immortal man of the century, and enjoyed his friendship. He was the very impersonation of humanity; his stature was above and beyond all others. One hand reached back to the very portals of Mount Vernon, while the other, giving kindly protection to the oppressed, still reaches forward to guide, encourage, and sustain the people of this Nation.
It was my great good-fortune to know something of Abraham Lincoln from the time I was about twelve years old, and even earlier than that I have a distinct recollection of hearing my father advising men to employ Lincoln in important litigation. Lincoln at that time was about thirty years old, and even then was regarded as a really great lawyer.
The first time I ever saw him in court he, assisted by Colonel E. D. Baker (afterwards a senator from Oregon, and killed at Ball's Bluff), was engaged in the defence of a man on trial for murder. The conduct of the defence made by those great lawyers produced an impression on my mind that will never be forgotten. Lincoln became then my ideal of a great man, and has so remained ever since.
In 1846, Mr. Lincoln was the Whig candidate for Congress, and it was then that I first heard him deliver a political speech. The county in which my father resided was a part of his Congressional district. When Lincoln came to the county my father met him with his carriage and took him to all his appointments. I went to the meeting nearest my home—an open-air meeting held in a grove. On being introduced, he began his speech as follows: "Fellow citizens, ever since I have been in Tazewell County my old friend, Major Cullom, has taken me around; he has heard all my speeches, and the only way I can hope to fool the old Major and make him believe I am making a new speech is by turning it end for end once in a while."
When I determined to abandon the hard work on the farm to enter the study of law at Springfield, my father being so close to Mr. Lincoln, I went to him for advice. He expressed a willingness to take me into his own office as a student, but said that he was absent on the circuit so much that he would advise me to enter the law office of Stuart and Edwards, two prominent Springfield lawyers, of whom I have written more at length in an earlier chapter. There I would have the advantage of the constant supervision of one or the other member of the firm.
From that time until he left Springfield never to return, I had constant means of observing Lincoln as a lawyer. I was at times associated with him as a junior counsel in the trial of law suits. I was employed in a murder case which Lincoln and Logan were defending, I being the boy lawyer in the case. They made a wonderful defence. I do not know whether the defendant was guilty or not, but I do know that he was acquitted.
During my life I have been acquainted with very many able lawyers, and I have no hesitation in saying that Lincoln was the greatest trial lawyer I ever knew. He was a man of wonderful power before a court or jury. When he was sure he was right, his strength and resourcefulness were well-nigh irresistible. In the court-room he was at home. He was frank with the court, the juries, and the lawyers, to such an extent that he would state the case of the opposite side as fairly as the opposing counsel could do it; he would then disclose his client's case so strongly, with such honestly and candor, that the judge and jury would be almost convinced at once in advance of the testimony. Judge Davis once said that the framework of Lincoln's mental and moral being was honesty, and that a wrong cause was poorly defended by him.
The story is told that a man offered to employ him in a case and told him the facts, which did not satisfy Lincoln that there was any merit in it. He said to him: "I can gain your case; I can set a whole neighborhood at loggerheads; I can distress a widowed mother and six fatherless children, and thereby get for you six hundred dollars, which it appears to me as rightfully belongs to them as to you. I will not take your case, but I will give you a little advice for nothing. You seem to be a sprightly young man, and I advise you to try your hand at making six hundred dollars in some other way."
Mr. Lincoln was for a time employed by the Illinois Central Railroad as one of its attorneys. In a case in one of the counties of Judge Davis's circuit to which the railroad was a party, it was announced that the company was not ready for trial, and the court inquired the reason; to which Mr. Lincoln replied that Captain McClellan was absent. The court asked, "Who is Captain McClellan?" Lincoln replied that all he knew about him was that he was the engineer of the Illinois Central Railroad.
What a strange juggling of destiny and of fate! In little more than two years McClellan's fame had become world-wide as the general in charge of all the armies of the Republic, only to prove in the estimation of many people the most stupendous failure as a commander in all our military history; Davis had become a Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States; and Lincoln had reached the Presidency.
In the trial of the murder case to which I have referred, I never saw more striking evidence of Mr. Lincoln's power over a court. There came a question of the advisability of certain testimony which was very vital to the defendant. The question was thoroughly argued by Judge Logan and Mr. Lincoln until the court took a recess for dinner at noon. The Judge announced that he would render his decision when the court reconvened. The courthouse was filled on the reconvening of court in the afternoon, and the Judge began rendering his opinion on the point in dispute. It seemed to Mr. Lincoln and those present that he was about to decide against the admissibility of the evidence. Lincoln sprang to his feet. Apparently he towered over the Judge, overawing him. He made such a tremendous impression that the court apparently gave way, and decided the point in the defendant's favor.
Mr. Lincoln was not only a great statesman, but he was one of the ablest, most astute, and shrewdest politicians whom I have ever known. From my earliest recollection of him he took keen interest in public affairs and was the foremost public man or politician in his section of the State. He was not among the first to join the Republican party. He clung to the old Whig party as long as a vestige of it remained. Almost immediately after he drifted into the Republican party, he became its recognized leader in Illinois, and his public utterances attracted the attention of the Nation to him.
I recollect having heard him utter the memorable words in the
Republican Convention of my State in 1858:
"A house divided against itself cannot stand. This Government cannot permanently endure half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved—I do not expect the house to fall—but I do expect that it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing, or all the other."
What words of wisdom! He looked through the veil between him and the future and saw the end more clearly than any other man in public life. This was a carefully prepared speech, in which every word was weighed. Some of his friends, to whom it was read, advised him not to use the clause I have quoted, "a house divided against itself." He was wiser than any of them. With a self-reliance born of earnest conviction he said that the time had come when the sentiments should be uttered, and that if he should go down because of their utterance by him, then he would go down linked with the truth.
I listened to much of the great debate between Lincoln and Douglas, the greatest political debate which ever took place in this country. I have always felt that Lincoln never expected to be elected to the Senate in 1858. I think he saw more clearly than any of us that the advanced position which he took in that debate made his election to the Senate at that time impossible. He was then fighting for a great principle. He did carry a majority of the popular vote, but Douglas secured a majority of the Legislature.
His defeat apparently affected him little, if at all. I felt very badly when it became apparent that Douglas had secured a majority of the Legislature. I met Lincoln on the street one day, and said: "Mr. Lincoln, is it true that Douglas has a majority of the Legislature?" His reply was an affirmative. I then expressed the great sorrow and disappointment that I felt. He placed a hand upon my shoulder, and said: "Never mind, my boy; it will all come right." I believe that he then felt certain that the position he took in that memorable debate would make him the logical candidate of the Republican party for the Presidency in 1860, which it did. And two years from that very day the Republican party celebrated its first national victory in his election as President of the United States.
It has been said that Mr. Lincoln never went to school; and he never did to any great extent, but in a broad sense of the word, he was an educated man. He was a student, a thinker; he educated himself, and mastered any question which claimed his attention. There was no man in this country who possessed to a greater degree the power of analyzation.
He was a student all his life. One incident that occurred in Springfield, some years before he finally left, will serve as an illustration.
An old German came through the town and claimed that he could teach us all to read and speak German in a few weeks. A class was organized for the purpose of studying German. Lincoln became a member of the class, and I also was in it, and I can see him yet going about with the German book in his pocket, studying it during his leisure moments in court and elsewhere. None of the rest of us learned much, but Lincoln mastered it, as he did every other subject which engaged his attention.
His home life was a pleasant one. I often visited at his home, and so far as my observation went, I do not hesitate to say that not the slightest credence should be given to the many false stories that have from time to time appeared, manufactured largely by those who desired to write something new and sensational concerning the life of President Lincoln in his home, and concerning Mrs. Lincoln.
Mr. Lincoln was regarded generally as an ungainly man, and so he was; and yet on occasions he appeared to me to be superior in dignity and nobility to almost any other man whom I have ever seen. I was present when the committee from the National Convention, that gave his first nomination for President, came to Springfield to notify him of his nomination. He stood in the rear of a double parlor in his home, and as the Hon. George F. Ashmun, president of the convention, presented the members of the delegation one by one to him, I thought that he looked what he was—the superior of any man present. Many of the eminent men composing that delegation had believed that Lincoln was some sort of a monster. I stood among them after they had met him and listened to their comments. The lofty character, the towering strength, the majesty of the man had made a great impression upon them. They had come expecting to see a freak; they discovered one of the princes of men.
In this connection, I must be permitted to refer to another occasion. It so happened that I was in Washington when the President's son Willie died. The funeral ceremony took place in the East Room of the White House, in the presence of the President and his cabinet and a few other friends. When the ceremony was about concluded and President Lincoln stood by the bier of his dead boy, with tear- drops falling from his face, surrounded by Seward, Chase, Bates, and others, I thought I never beheld a nobler-looking man. He was at that time truly, as he appeared, a man of sorrow, acquainted with grief, possessing the power and responsibilities of a President of a great Nation, yet with quivering lips and face bedewed with tears, from personal sorrow.
The morning that Abraham Lincoln left his home in Springfield never to return is not to be forgotten. It was early on the morning of the eleventh of February, dark and gloomy, with a light snow falling. There was a large crowd of his neighbors and friends at the station to bid him good-bye. He held a sort of impromptu reception in the little railroad station. There was no noisy demonstration. As I recollect it now, it was a solemn leave-taking. Just before the train pulled out, Mr. Lincoln appeared on the rear platform of his car. Every head was bared, as if to receive a benediction, as he uttered his farewell address:
"My Friends: No one not in my situation can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him, I cannot succeed; with that assistance, I cannot fail. Trusting in Him, who can go with me, and remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."
I was not present at the first inauguration of President Lincoln, but I visited Washington many times during the years that he was President, and, knowing him as well as I did, and having known both Nicolay and Hay, his secretaries, in Springfield, I naturally spent much time around the executive offices. I had many conversations with him during the early years of the war. He had no military education, but he soon demonstrated that he was in fact the real commander-in-chief. He liked General McClellan, and stuck to him until McClellan had demonstrated his absolute inefficiency for command. McClellan was a great organizer. He made the Army of the Potomac the most perfect fighting machine, I might almost say, that was ever known in military history. But there he stopped. He could organize, but he could not and did not, despite the urging and the anxiety of Mr. Lincoln, push forward his army to victory. I knew something of Mr. Lincoln's anxiety at the failure of McClellan to inaugurate an aggressive campaign.
The late O. M. Hatch of Illinois told me of a rather interesting incident which occurred on one occasion when the President, accompanied by Mr. Hatch, visited McClellan's army a few days prior to the battle of Antietam in September, 1862. They spent the night in a tent, and, rising very early, at the President's suggestion they took a walk before sunrise about the great camp, inspecting the field, the artillery, the quarters, and all the appurtenances of the army. Lincoln was in a pensive mood, and scarcely a word was spoken. Finally, just as the sun was rising, they reached a commanding point; the President stopped, placed his left hand upon Mr. Hatch's shoulder, and slowly waving his right in the direction of the great city of tents, seriously inquired: "Mr. Hatch, what is all this before us?"
"Why, Mr. President," was the surprised reply, "this is General
McClellan's army."
"No, Mr. Hatch, no," returned Lincoln soberly, "this is General
McClellan's body-guard."
It will be understood what these utterances signified: they expressed perfectly the prevailing belief that McClellan had failed to appreciate the purpose for which that magnificent fighting machine had been created.
I think I am justified in saying that after the earlier contests of the war had proven that great soldiers and great generals were not always great leaders, President Lincoln became the able director, the actual commander-in-chief of the forces of the United States. He planned and ordered the larger movements of the War, and he held the reins above and about all his armies, scarcely relaxing his watchful care for a moment,—until events demonstrated the wisdom with which he confided the military interests of our beloved country and the conduct of the war to Ulysses S. Grant.
Some of us remember with what persistence during the Winter of 1862 and 1863 many newspapers and a large share of the Northern people joined in the cry of "On to Richmond!" Censure and criticism ran riot even among Northern Republicans. In a three-line memorandum the President showed the fallacy of that outcry, when he wrote: "Our prime object is the enemy's army in front of us, and not with or about Richmond at all, unless it be incidental to the main object." At a later day he said to Hooker: "I think Lee's army, and not Richmond, is your sure objective point."
Modest and simple as he always was, never seeking power with inordinate ambition, simply that he might use power; still he was never afraid to assume responsibility when it was his duty to assume it.
I called on him one evening at the Soldiers' Home. We spent the evening together, and naturally we talked of the war. He discussed almost all of his generals, beginning with McClellan. At that time McClellan was down on the James, and Pope was in the saddle in Virginia. Pope, he feared, would be whipped, unless he could get more troops, and he was trying to get McClellan back in order to save Pope. At that time he had not yet lost his faith in McClellan, but he was complaining that McClellan was never ready for battle. After making all possible preparations, and with the enemy in front, he would overestimate the size of the enemy's force, and demand more troops. Yet Mr. Lincoln said that he would rather trust McClellan to get his army out of a tight place than any other general that he had.
After his election he invited his principal competitors for the nomination to enter his cabinet. He had not the slightest jealousy of any living man. He was not afraid, as some of our Presidents have been, to have his cabinet composed of the greatest men of his time. He was a bigger man than any of them, and no thought of jealousy ever entered his mind. Both Seward and Chase fancied they were greater men than Lincoln, and each of them, at the beginning at least, entertained the idea that on him rested the responsibility of the administration. Seward felt that he should have been the nominee of his party. Chase felt perfectly sure that he, and not Lincoln, should have been President.
Before many months had passed, Seward was compelled to acknowledge that Mr. Lincoln was the superior of any of them, as he expressed it in a letter to his wife. He soon became one of the most devoted friends and loyal supporters of the President. The publication of the diary of Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy from 1861 to 1865, shows that Mr. Lincoln was the leader of them all, and was in fact the real head of every department of his administration.
Chase was an able man, and loyal to the Union; but, unlike Seward, he was never loyal to the President personally, and was constantly plotting in his own interest to supplant Lincoln as the nominee of his party in 1864,—a most reprehensible course on the part of a cabinet officer. This did not give concern to Mr. Lincoln in the slightest degree. He cared very little what Mr. Chase said or thought of him personally, so long as he was doing his duty as Secretary of the Treasury.
I was in Washington the latter part of February, 1864, before he was nominated the second time. I happened to hear of the Pomeroy letter in behalf of Mr. Chase, and I learned with amazement that Chase was conspiring with his friends to secure the nomination for the Presidency, and was untrue and unloyal to his chief. I felt justly indignant. I saw Mr. Lincoln and talked with him about it with great earnestness. I told him that Chase should be turned out. He answered by saying: "Let him alone; he can do no more harm in here than he can outside."
If things did not go to suit him, Chase was in the habit of tendering his resignation every few days. It was not accepted; but he offered it once too often, and, very much to his surprise and chagrin, it was promptly accepted; and Chase was relegated to private life, where he belonged, and where he should have remained.
Chief Justice Taney passed away unmourned, the most pathetic and desolate figure in the Civil War, with his long, faithful, and distinguished service on the bench forgotten. Chase's friends, and Chase himself, at once commenced overtures of friendship toward Mr. Lincoln, in the interest, solely, of securing Chase's appointment as Chief Justice. Considerable pressure was brought to bear in behalf of Chase. The President would give no intimation as to what he intended to do, although I myself believe that he all the time intended appointing him to the vacant position, and that the so- called pressure on the part of Sumner and other radicals had little, if any, influence with him.
During this period, after the death of Chief Justice Taney, Chase was not at all averse to writing the President the most friendly letters. One day his secretary brought him a letter from Mr. Chase. The President asked, "What is it about?" "Simply a kind and friendly letter," the secretary answered. Mr. Lincoln, without reading it, replied with his shrewd smile: "File it with his other recommendations."
Chase was finally appointed Chief Justice of the United States. After his conduct as a member of the cabinet, I do not believe we have ever had another President, except Lincoln, magnanimous enough to have made that appointment under similar circumstances. Lincoln entertained a very exalted opinion of Chase's ability as a lawyer and a man. He believed that he possessed the qualifications of a great Chief Justice, and the appointment was made entirely free from any personal feelings or prejudices.
I happened to be alone in Mr. Nicolay's room in the White House when Mr. Chase called to thank the President for his nomination. He came into Mr. Nicolay's room first, and inquired of me if the President was in. I told him I did not know, but his room was next to the one we were in, and he might ascertain for himself. Knowing of Chase's disparaging remarks concerning Mr. Lincoln, and of his disloyalty as a member of his cabinet, I was very curious to hear what he would have to say to the President. He left the door ajar, and I overheard the conversation. Mr. Chase proceeded to thank the President for his nomination. Mr. Lincoln's reply was brief, merely that he hoped Mr. Chase would get along well and would do his duty. Very few words passed between them, and the interview closed.
Montgomery Blair was Postmaster-General in President Lincoln's cabinet. He was appointed from the District of Columbia. He was a man of considerable ability, and was thoroughly loyal to the President. Montgomery Blair became exceedingly unpopular among certain classes, not only on his own account, but because of his brother Frank, whose home was in Missouri. I thought his remaining in the cabinet was injuring the Administration, and I told Mr. Lincoln, in a conversation I had with him at the White House, that under all the circumstances Montgomery Blair should be relieved from office; that he was unpopular; that the people were not for him. Mr. Lincoln seemed annoyed, even to the extent of petulance (a rare thing with him), that I should say anything against Montgomery Blair. He asserted that Blair was a loyal man, was doing his full duty as Postmaster-General, and that he would not turn him out.
Later, Montgomery Blair, always loyal under all circumstances, told the President that he was ready to tender his resignation whenever, in the judgment of the President, his remaining in the cabinet would be an embarrassment; and Mr. Lincoln in a very kindly note sometime afterwards said that he felt himself compelled to accept Mr. Blair's offer and ask for his resignation. They continued personal friends until the President's death.
The year 1862, on account of the proclamation of President Lincoln, in September, that he would free the slaves in those States or parts of States whose people continued in rebellion on and after January 1, 1863, was a disastrous year to the Republican party; but the final effect of the proclamation was beneficial to the cause of the Union. It stimulated greater enthusiasm on the part of those who desired to see the end of slavery in this country. Many people so hated that institution that they were more desirous of having it abolished than to have the Union preserved with it.
While President Lincoln was always opposed to slavery, unequivocally opposed to it, yet his oath called upon him to preserve the Constitution and the Union. He said that his paramount object was to save the Union and not to save or destroy slavery.
In 1862 President Lincoln appointed three men, namely, Governor George S. Boutwell, the Hon. Stephen T. Logan, and the Hon. Charles A. Dana, a commission to go to Cairo, Illinois, and settle the claims of numerous persons against the Government, arising from property purchased by commissary officers and quartermasters in the volunteer service before the volunteers knew anything about military rules or regulations. Judge Logan went to Cairo, remained a few days, became ill, tendered his resignation, and returned home. The President telegraphed me an appointment, and asked me to go at once to Cairo for duty, which I did. I had not known either Boutwell or Dana before. The commission finished its work in about a month, and forwarded to Washington all papers, with its report. The claims were paid on the basis of our allowance, and justice was done to all concerned.
Early in 1862 an old friend of President Lincoln's, James Lamb, came to see me, stating that he had been furnishing beef cattle to the army; that he had received orders to furnish a given number on the hoof at a certain place in the South, which he had done; but before his cattle arrived the army had gone, and he had thereby suffered great loss. He asked me to look after his claim when I went to the National capital, and I agreed to do so. I knew nothing about such things in Washington, nor how such business with the Government was transacted. I went to the President as the only official with whom I was acquainted, and stated to him, "Uncle Jimmie Lamb, your old friend, has a claim," setting forth the same in full. "You know he is a good man," I urged, "and he ought to have his money." Lincoln answered me by saying: "Cullom, there is this difference in dealing between two individuals and between an individual and the Government: if an individual does not do as he agreed and the other person is injured thereby, he can sue the one responsible for the injury, and recover damages; but in the case of the Government, if it does not do right, the individual can't help himself." He gave me a note, however, to the proper officer and the matter was arranged.
The gossip around the Capitol in Washington among Senators and Representatives is a very poor gauge of public sentiment in the country toward a President. I was in Washington a few months before the second nomination. I talked with numerous Representatives and Senators, and it really seemed to me as if there was hardly any one in favor of the renomination of Mr. Lincoln. I felt much discouraged over the circumstance. When I was about to leave for home, I called at the White House. I asked the President if he permitted anybody to talk to him about himself. He replied that he did. I said: "I would like to talk to you about yourself." He asked me to be seated. Whereupon I told him that I had been in Washington some ten days or more, and that everybody seemed to be against him.
"Well, it is not quite so bad as that," he said. He took down his directory, and I soon discovered that he had a far more intimate knowledge of the situation than I had. He had every one marked, knew how he stood, and the list made a better showing than I had expected.
The truth is, however, that many of the strong men in Congress, especially the radicals, were against his renomination, and would have rejoiced to see some one else the nominee of the party; but they knew full well, that the great body of the people of the North were with him, and that it would be useless to attempt to prevent his renomination.
The next time I called at the White House after the convention, he reminded me of our previous conversation, and remarked that it did not turn out so badly after all.
He was reminded of a little story. A couple of Irishmen came to America and started out on foot into the country. They travelled along until they came to a piece of woods. They thought they heard a noise, but did not know what it was. They deployed on either side of the road to find out, but were unable to do so, and finally one called to the other, "Pat, Pat, let's go on; this is nothing by a domned noise." So the opposition to him, he said, was apparently nothing but a noise.
But if he never had any doubts as to his renomination, he at one time almost despaired of being re-elected, as did many of his closest and most intimate friends. The Democrats had not yet selected their candidates, and as he remarked: "At this period we had no adversary, and seemed to have no friends."
An incident in this connection is related by the late Secretary, John Hay. The President felt that the campaign was going against him, and he had made up his mind deliberately as to the course he should pursue. He resolved to lay down for himself a course of action demanded by his then conviction of duty. He wrote on the twenty-third of August the following memorandum:
"This morning, as for some days past, it seems exceedingly probable that this administration will not be re-elected. Then it will be my duty to so co-operate with the President-elect as to save the Union between the election and the inauguration; as he will have secured his election on such grounds that he cannot possibly save it afterwards."
He then folded and pasted the sheet in such manner that its contents could not be read, and as the cabinet came together he handed this paper to each member successively, requesting him to write his name across the back of it, without intimating to any member of the cabinet what the note contained. In this manner he pledged himself to accept loyally the anticipated verdict of the people against him.
Mr. Hay's diary relates what took place at the next cabinet meeting after the election, as follows:
"At the meeting of the cabinet to-day the President took out a paper from his desk and said: 'Gentlemen, do you remember last summer I asked you all to sign your names to the back of a paper of which I did not show you the inside? This is it. Now, Mr. Hay, see if you can open this without tearing it.' He had pasted it up in so singular a style that it required some cutting to get it open. He then read this memorandum (quoted above).
"The President said: 'You will remember that this was written at the time, six days before the Chicago nominating convention, when as yet we had no adversary and seemed to have no friends. I then solemnly resolved on the course of action indicated in this paper. I resolved in the case of the election of General McClellan, being certain that he would be the candidate, that I would see him and talk matters over with him. I would say, "General, the election has demonstrated that you are stronger, have more influence with the American people than I. Now let us together, you with your influence, and I with all the executive power of the Government, try to save the country. You raise as many troops as you possibly can for the final trial, and I will devote all my energies to assist and finish the war."'
"Seward said: 'And the General would have answered you, "Yes, yes," and the next day when you saw him again and pressed these views upon him, he would have said, "Yes, yes," and so on forever, and would have done nothing at all.'
"'At least,' rejoined Lincoln, 'I should have done my duty and have stood clear before my own conscience.'"
Not the least of his troubles and embarrassments during the trying period preceding his second election was the overzealous advice,— persistence, I might say—on the part of certain New Yorkers and New Englanders who seemed to think that they had the interest of the Union and the country more at heart than had Mr. Lincoln.
Horace Greeley was one of the most troublesome of this lot. He was an honest and a most loyal man, but was willing to temporize upon the most vital questions. At one time he advised that the "erring sisters" should be permitted to depart in peace. At this particular time of which I speak he had devised a plan for a peace conference, with certain prominent Confederates, Clement C. Clay, among others, to be held in Canada. Mr. Lincoln felt sure that the conference would do no good, and that the Confederates were fooling Mr. Greeley, and that they had no real power to act.
This turned out to be exactly the truth. I was with the President just as he was sending Mr. Hay to Niagara with written instructions, which were given to see that nothing which threatened the interests of the Government should be done. The President was very much annoyed, and he remarked to me: "While Mr. Greeley means right, he makes me almost as much trouble as the whole Southern Confederacy."
While, as I have previously observed, Greeley was intensely loyal to the country, yet he was so nervous and unstable in his mind that he could not resist the effort to bring about a condition of peace. I think he would have consented to almost anything in order to secure it. He was very anxious for the issuance of a proclamation abolishing slavery, and on the nineteenth of August, 1862, addressed a very arrogant open letter to President Lincoln on the subject.
Lincoln's reply was so good, so perfect, and so conclusive that I give it, as follows:
"Executive Mansion,
"Washington, Friday, August 22, 1863.
"Hon. Horace Greeley:
"Dear Sir: I have just read yours of the nineteenth instant, addressed to myself through The New York Tribune.
"If there be any statements or assumptions of facts which I may know to be erroneous, I do not now and here controvert them.
"If there may be any inferences which I may to believe to be falsely drawn, I do not now and here argue against them.
"If there be perceptible in it an impatient and dictatorial tone, I waive it in deference to an old friend whose heart I have always supposed to be right.
"As to the policy 'I seem to be pursuing,' as you say, I have not meant to leave any one in doubt. I would save the Union. I would save it in the shortest way under the Constitution.
"The sooner the National authority can be restored, the nearer the
Union will be—the Union as it was.
"If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time save slavery, I do not agree with them.
"If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time destroy slavery, I do not agree with them.
"My paramount object is to save the Union, and not either to save or destroy slavery.
"If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves, I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would do that.
"What I do about slavery and the colored race, I do because I believe it helps to save the Union, and what I forbear, I forbear because I do not believe it would help to save the Union.
"I shall do less whenever I shall believe what I am doing hurts the cause, and shall do more whenever I believe doing more will help the cause.
"I shall try to correct errors when shown to be errors, and I shall adopt new views so fast as they will appear to be true views.
"I have here stated my purpose according to my view of official duty, and I intend no modifications of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men everywhere could be free.
"Yours,
"A. Lincoln."
It is said that Mr. Greeley remarked after reading the letter that he had been knocked out by one letter from Mr. Lincoln, and that he "would be damned if he ever wrote him another."
There was more personal bitterness evinced against Mr. Lincoln in the campaign of 1864 than ever before or since in a Presidential campaign. He was denounced in the most intemperate language as a tyrant, a dictator, whose administration had proven a failure. A certain element of so-called "high class" New Englanders, men of the Wendell Phillips type, were particularly bitter in their denunciation. And I may remark in passing that the New England men of letters never did have a proper appreciation of the worth of Abraham Lincoln.
He was triumphantly re-elected amid the universal rejoicing of the friends of liberty throughout the North. He took the election very quietly. He apparently felt no sense of personal triumph over his opponents and those who had so bitterly attacked him during the campaign. He seemed only to have a feeling of deep gratitude to his fellow citizens who had testified their confidence in his administration. On the evening of election day, when it became evident that he was re-elected to the Presidency, in response to a serenade he said:
"I am thankful to God for this approval by the people. While deeply grateful for this mark of their confidence in me, if I know my heart, my gratitude is free from any taint of personal triumph, but I give thanks to the Almighty for this evidence of the people's resolution to stand by free government and the rights of humanity."
And again in that eloquent, simple little response which he made to the joint committee of Congress appointed to wait upon him to notify him of his second election, after the count of the electoral votes by a joint session of the Senate and House of Representatives in Congress, he said:
"With deep gratitude to my countrymen for this mark of their confidence; with a distrust of my own ability to perform the duty required under the most favorable circumstances, and now rendered doubly difficult by existing national perils; yet with a firm reliance on the strength of our free Government, and the eventual loyalty of the people to the just principles upon which it is founded, and, above all, with an unshaken faith in the Supreme Ruler of Nations, I accept this trust. Be pleased to signify this to the respective Houses of Congress."
These utterances show more clearly than any one else can describe the state of mind in which the President received his re-election, and in which he was about to enter his second term as President of the Republic. Without any personal feeling of pride, he was certain in his own mind that his re-election was necessary in order to save the Union.
I attended the second inauguration, March 4, 1865. I have a particularly vivid recollection of the scene which took place in the Senate chamber when Mr. Johnson took the oath as Vice-President. The simple truth is, and it was plain to every one present in that chamber, Mr. Johnson was intoxicated. Johnson delivered a rambling, senseless address. I sat next to Senator Lane of Indiana, and I remarked that somebody should stop him. Lane sent up a note to the Secretary of the Senate, telling him to get Johnson to cease speaking and take the oath. We felt Johnson was making an exhibition of himself in the presence of the President, the Cabinet, the Foreign Representatives, and two Houses of Congress, and a gathering of the most distinguished men of the Nation. The Secretary wrote some lines and placed them before Mr. Johnson, who did not appear to notice them. Finally he was made to understand that he must take the oath, as the time had come when the President, according to usual custom, would have to go to the east front of the Capitol to take the oath as President of the United States. Johnson, with a sort of wild sweep of his arm said, "I will take the oath, but I regard my devotion to the Union as greater evidence of my loyalty than any oath I could take."
I was close to Mr. Lincoln at the solemn moment when Chief Justice Chase administered to him the oath of office. There was a vast crowd of people, great enthusiasm and rejoicing, and the war was practically over,—a far different scene from the one which took place just four years before, when Chief Justice Taney in the same place administered the same oath. At that time there was no noisy demonstration. There was a solemn hush, as every one realized that the country was about to be plunged into one of the mightiest civil wars of all history. Indeed many men believed that there was a concerted plot to assassinate Mr. Lincoln at that time, and that he would never be permitted to enter upon the duties of his office.
I heard him deliver his second inaugural address,—one of his two greatest speeches.
The last time I saw Abraham Lincoln alive was about three weeks before his assassination, as I now recollect. He was at the White House. There had been constant rumors throughout his first term that he was in danger of some such outrage, but as the war drew to a close, with the natural bitter and resentful feeling in the South, these rumors seemed to increase. I told him what I had heard, and urged him to be careful. It did not seem to concern him much, and the substance of his reply was that he must take his chances; that he could not live in an iron box, as he expressed it, and do his duty as President of the United States.
It is difficult for one who did not live in those terrible days from 1861 to 1865 to realize the awful shock of horror that went through the whole Nation on the morning of April 15, 1865, when the message came, "Abraham Lincoln is dead." In his old home at Springfield, it seemed the whole population assembled in the public square, and the duty devolved upon me to announce to the assembled people that the great President had passed away. There was intense suppressed excitement. No one dared utter a word in disparagement of Abraham Lincoln. The crowd was in the humor for hanging to the limb of the first convenient tree any one who dared to make a slighting suggestion. It was not alone in Springfield, but it was throughout the entire North that this feeling prevailed. There was fear that the Government would go to pieces, almost that the end of the world was at hand.
Soon the news came from different sources that he was to be buried in Washington, or somewhere in the East. The people of Springfield became very much worked up. A committee was appointed to go to Washington to insist that the remains should be taken to Springfield. I was a member of this committee. We left immediately, but before we arrived at Harrisburg it had been determined that the only fitting final resting place of all that remained of the immortal Lincoln was at his old home in Springfield; and the funeral train had already left Washington. The committee waited at Harrisburg for its arrival. Through the courtesy of Governor Curtin, of Pennsylvania, we were permitted to board the train, and we accompanied the remains from there to Philadelphia, New York, Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland, Indianapolis, Chicago, and finally to Springfield. At each place the remains lay in state and were viewed by hundreds of thousands of people.
In all, the entire journey consumed some twelve days from the time the party left Washington until it arrived in Springfield. It was determined that the funeral train should follow the same route and stop at practically the same places that Lincoln visited on his way to Washington to be inaugurated as the first Republican President of the United States. The country was so wrought up no one seemed certain what was to happen; no one knew but that there would be a second and bloodier revolution, in which the Government might fall into the hands of a dictator; and it was thought the funeral trip would serve to arouse the patriotism of the people, which it did.
I never witnessed anything like the universal demonstration of sorrow, not only at every city where the remains lay in state but all during the entire route, at every little village and hamlet; even at cross-roads thousands of people would be gathered to catch a glimpse of the funeral train as it passed by. In Philadelphia the casket rested in Independence Hall. In New York I suppose not less than half a million people passed by to view the body. General Scott came down with the procession to the station, and to him I introduced our Illinois friends. His response was given in a most dignified and ponderous style: "Gentlemen, you do me great honor."
The farther west we proceeded, drawing constantly nearer to the home of Lincoln, the more wrought up the people seemed to be. In the West there were not only expressions of deep sorrow, but of vengeance as well, especially toward the South. Before the facts became fully known, it was thought that the assassination was the result of a Southern conspiracy, and there was a feeling that the whole South should be punished for the act of one of her misguided sons. The body lay in state for two days in Chicago, and then came the last stage of the journey to Springfield. It first was taken to the State House, and was afterwards placed in the old vault at the foot of the hill in Oak Ridge Cemetery, where it remained until the monument was completed. Bishop Simpson, one of the most eloquent men in the Methodist Church, and a devoted friend of Mr. Lincoln during his life, preached the funeral sermon. The services at Springfield were simple in the extreme, just as Mr. Lincoln would have wished. Steps were at once taken for the erection of the monument, which stands in Oak Ridge Cemetery to-day.
So far as I can learn, every member of the funeral party that accompanied the remains of Abraham Lincoln from Washington to Springfield, with the exception of Mr. E. F. Leonard and myself, has passed away.
It was my good fortune to know Abraham Lincoln in all the walks of life. I knew him as President, and I was permitted to know him in the sacred precincts of his family at home. I have studied the lives of the great men of the world, and I do not hesitate to say now, after nearly fifty years have passed away since his death, that Abraham Lincoln was the peer in all that makes a man great, useful, and noble, of any man in all the world's history.